“Any room you’re in is the best room in town,” he said.
She frowned. “You don’t have to try so hard, you know. I’m still me.” She didn’t have the strength to wrestle with all that had happened, tonight.
“I know,” he said, just barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry.” He reached out, offering his hands to her, and she took them as she bit her lip. “There’s no excuse for what I’ve done,” Devery said. “And there’s no way I can bring them back. Not Melnora, not Fin. Not the baby. And there’s no reason in all the After for you to forgive me. You’d be a half-wit if you did. I won’t ask you to.”
She pulled her hands from his.
He turned away. “I’ll explain it to Katy.”
She slapped his face so hard it stung her hand. “You’re right,” she said. “It would take a prickling half-wit to overlook what you’ve done. To ignore the hurt you’ve caused.” She looked down at her blood-soaked shirt. “And by the goddess, there has been hurt.” Her eyes welled with tears. “I’ve been called a lot of names before, Devery, but half-wit isn’t among them. I can’t ignore what you’ve done, and I can’t forget what’s been lost. But you don’t get to make decisions for me. I might be a madwoman—but I love you.” She took his face between her hands. “We’ll figure this out. Things will never go back to exactly the way they were, but—”
He kissed her before she could finish speaking. It was the kind of kiss one gives to a priestess in the temple—gentle and dry. Full of reverence.
She didn’t speak as he slowly undressed her. He poured water from the pitcher into the basin and knelt before her, sponging the blood from her belly and thighs. Quietly, he began to murmur a prayer of devotion. His hands were his prayer, offering what he could, for however long he could. His tears were his sacrifice, and she let him give it freely.
In Vagan temples, the goddess often enters the body of her priestesses, and when Gemma bent and reached out for him, tipping the basin over and pulling him toward her with all the ferocity of the mother and warrior, she’d have sworn that Devery had found his religion.
It was raining. Gemma could smell it. The fresh water rinsing away the salt and dust and leaving behind a prettied-up Yigris, if only for a few minutes. She drew in a deep breath, enjoying the brief respite.
A counter note to the sweet rain was the clean-sweat smell of Devery snoring softly beside her. She nuzzled against him, still refusing to open her eyes to this day that would bring them to the palace and to his mother. To whatever fate the goddess saw fit for them all.
They must be prickling mad to fight six fully trained mage women. The side of her mouth quirked upward. They could still run away. Make a new life and make babies and … but where would they go? Who would they be? She knew in her heart that she couldn’t bankrupt the Guild. If she left, she would leave the bank codes with Lian or Elam. Her heart clenched at the thought of leaving him behind. In Yigris, they were important. Respected. Elsewhere—on Far Coast, or in Ladia—who would they be?
She sighed, then opened her eyes. Reality asserted itself. There would be no baby for her. Not for a while, anyway. They had to get Katya away from Brinna. And then Gemma had to punish the woman for what she had taken from them. And despite her discomfort with the idea, Gemma owed Isbit Daghan. The woman had helped her put down Riquin’s mutiny. In return, Gemma promised to help Isbit retake her palace.
Without warning, a shameful sob pushed its way out of her, and hot tears streamed down her cheeks. She wasn’t even sure why she was crying, but suddenly the world seemed overwhelming. Her life was too much. She felt as if all of her choices had been made for her, as if all her will had been stolen.
Devery’s arms snaked around her, pulling her closer. “Are you in pain?”
She shook her head, snuffling. “I’m fine. I just …” Another sob raked its way upward.
“What is it, love?” He kissed her temple and wiped her tears.
A quavering wail escaped her lips as she buried her head in his shoulder. “You’ll make a terrible farmer!” she howled, before thrusting herself away from him and into the pillows. She pulled the blanket over her head.
He laughed, deep-throated and merry. “Yes, ma’am,” he said as his fingers began to wriggle under the edge of the blanket. He pulled it down until he could see her face. “I would be the worst farmer who has ever lived.”
She stared up at him, torn between her love for him and her sudden terror about their future. He bent and kissed her nose. “And you—my beautiful, brave, brilliant woman”—he paused—“would make an awful farmer’s wife.”
She tensed, anger flowing through her veins. “Well, how hard can it be, Dev? If you’re to be out hoeing in the yard all day, I suppose I’ll have to mend your socks and raise the children and tend the chickens, or some such horseshit.”
“And you would be terrible at nearly all of those things. I suggest that we not take up farming.” He wrapped her up in his embrace.
She stopped just shy of pushing him away. Though she felt awful—she didn’t want to lose the tenuous thread that connected them to each other. It seemed so fragile. “Well,” she sniffed, “what are we going to do, then?”
He sat up, his face suddenly serious. “Gem, I don’t see any reason why we have to go anywhere or be anything different from who we are now. But I will go anywhere and be anyone you want me to be.”
Her throat grew thick with emotion, and she started to cry again. “I’m just scared that something bad is going to happen. I’ve already lost …” She looked away. “I don’t want anyone else to get hurt.”
“I’m not going to get hurt,” he said.
She glared at his hand that would always bear the scars of his mother and reminded her of the scars he bore elsewhere.
“All right,” he sighed, wrapping his arms around her. “I can’t promise not to get hurt. But I can promise you that if we come out of the palace alive tonight—I swear to you, by the goddess, that I’m going to be the man you deserve. No more secrets. I’ll be the man I always should have been.”
She clung to him, crying into his shoulder.
“You have to know that I love you,” he said, wiping at his chest with the edge of the blanket. “There isn’t another grown woman alive who I’d let snot all over me like that.”
A knock sounded on the door as Devery slipped from the bed and pulled on his smallclothes and breeches. He walked as he yanked the laces tight, then tugged on a wrinkled shirt. He unlocked the door and opened it to reveal Lian, damp and wild-haired but grinning.
“Good morning, Devery. Regency.” She entered carrying a small basket. “I’ve come to check Gemma over. Go eat breakfast at the Belly Up,” she shooed him away. “I’ll bring the queen when I’m done.” Her tone left no room for argument. “Put on your boots, lad,” she said, turning toward Gemma. “It’s blustery, outside.”
After Devery kissed Gemma chastely on the forehead and left, Lian went over to the bed and sat down beside her. “Oh, posh,” she chortled, “as if that little peck on the head’s going to fool anyone. Seems like a little peck is what started this trouble in the first place.”
Gemma smiled, though her vision was still cloudy from too many tears and not enough sleep. “It’s not like that, Lian. We’re in love. We’ve been …”
“Oh, I know all about what you’ve been. Me and Master Fin have known for years, but you children think you’re so clever. Think you can pull the sails over our heads with your sneaking about. Fin told me two years ago to let you be. He said that once in a while, love is more important than rules. And then he said not to tell Regency Melnora, because she might not see it that way.”
Gemma’s eye’s stung with gratitude for the people who had always taken care of her.
Lian was digging through her basket as she spoke, and she pulled out a small vial. She handed it to Gemma. “That’s for later—before you go to the palace. It’ll fix up your energy problem in a hurry.”